


Regression / Catharsis

by drinkbloodlikewine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the most astute awareness of others doesn't mean you're capable of fixing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regression / Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trr_rr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trr_rr/gifts).



> The Hannibal-ACCA website has permission to post this piece <3

_Isolation. Reintegration. Socialization._ _Relapse._ _Repeat._

Will knows he’s made a mistake before the other man even realizes it. The tension tastes like ozone and he stands up as quickly as he sat down, deferring to the broad-shouldered man who angles towards the bar stool.

“You see my drink there? Means I’m fucking sitting there.”

He forces a smile, practiced and polite, and lifts his hands.  “Sorry. Really. Didn’t see it.”

“Guess those glasses aren’t fucking thick enough. Asshole,” he snorts, shaking his head and bumping past Will to slide onto the stool as he stands.

Will takes a seat several stools down instead, trying hard not to hear the grumbling beneath the man’s breath and instead turning a brief smile towards Matt. He reaches out for one of the pints he carries, and blinks, surprised, as he takes it, a charge between their fingers as they brush.

“Fuck that guy,” Matthew whispers, and Will frowns, at the hiss of Matt’s voice and the tension gathering in his limbs and the static spark twitch of his hands.

“Everything’s fine.”

“It’s not going to be if he doesn’t knock off the shit.” Matthew settles into the seat next to Will, elbows braced against the bar, and Will tries to take a deep breath but it falls short. He takes a long swig of beer and pretends to watch the game that Matt had so badly wanted to go out and watch.

“Orioles and Yankees, we have to! Fuck the Yankees!” he’d exclaimed with such enthusiasm that Will couldn’t deny him. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d gone out together, not to get things for the house or the dogs or to go to work, but just because. And Will hadn’t been to a bar in so long that it bordered on years.

There was a reason for that, he reminds himself, observing Matthew sidelong. He rolls his neck, rocks his shoulders a little, both hands clasped firmly around his glass, and Will knows with a gnawing in his stomach that there’s something itching at Matt, climbing up beneath his skin to claw its way out through the tightness of his jaw.

“So what’s wrong with the Yankees?” Will asks suddenly.

“They like to run their fucking mouths,” he spits, raising his voice towards the man seated further down the bar. Will’s relieved when he doesn’t appear to hear, turning quickly to Matthew.

“Stop. Matt. Relax. He’s just being an asshole.” He brushes a finger along Matt’s knee, just once.

Matthew runs his tongue over the front of his teeth in an unconscious movement that’s so feral that Will has to look away from him. “So you just let people talk to you like that?”

“Why shouldn’t I? Who cares? I don’t care. I don’t want you to care. Just forget it.”

Matt settles back on his stool, distracted by a sharp play on the field, and Will sighs, cautious relief.

He knows the best way to distract Matt is to get him talking, so he makes Matt tell him everything - about the Orioles, about the fucking Yankees, about their rivalry and who’s a scumbag and why he’d be a better coach than any of the ones out there. Will listens, passively, letting the words wash over him and watching the quick excited sweeps of Matt’s hands, increasingly animated and only periodically interrupted by complaining at the screen itself.

“Did you - did you grow up watching?”

“Nah. I mean. Kind of,” Matt responds, half-distracted by the game. “When I was in juvie it was the only thing everyone could agree on without fighting so they’d put on games in the rec room. It made time go by quicker to learn about it. And it gives you something to talk about with everyone else, so you’re not just the dumb kid with the lisp.” He takes a sip.

Will starts to correct him - not dumb, so far from it that it feels like a bruise when he hears Matt refer to himself that way - but he lets it go for now, here. “People take baseball that seriously?”

“Yeah, of course,” smiles Matt, brief and crooked. “Makes people think twice about going after you. Hard to beat the shit out of someone who’s on your side.”

“Did you go to games?”

Matthew chews his lip briefly, shakes his head. “Never had money for it. But they let me keep a radio, last time I went in, so I still got to listen to games. It helps. Distracts you. Makes you feel like you’re not just an animal they’re running experiments on.”

The bruised feeling spreads and Will hurts for him, all over. “We should,” he offers, shrugging. “Go to a game, I mean. I’d go.”

“You hate baseball,” chuckles Matt.

“Mostly,” he admits, amused, and finishes his beer. “But I’d go. If you wanted to go.”

“You know that games are like, three hours long, right? And there’s lots of people? And you’re outside?”

“I like being outside,” Will responds with an easy shrug, a slight smile, and before Will can stop him, Matt leans in and kisses him deeply, his mouth warm embers of excitement even despite his admonitions. Will makes a small noise of protest, trying to draw away, but Matthew follows him, leaning across their stools, grinning as their lips finally part.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” exclaims the man from beside Will. All the warmth drains from Will’s face and he feels himself go pale, his blush suddenly extinguished.

“Shit,” Will breathes, to no one in particular, eyes widening. He knows the storm’s coming before the first peal of thunder and then it all happens so quickly.

 _Isolation. Reintegration. Socialization. Relapse._ _Repeat._

“You got something to say, asshole?” spits Matt, gone all the way beyond feral to rabid. He’s not grinning so much as baring his teeth and Will grabs him hard by the shirt collar.

“Matt,” he says firmly, deliberately. “Let’s go. Now.”

“Listen to your wife,” the man laughs, and Will’s nearly pushed backwards off the stool as Matt lunges to stand.

“He’s just talking,” growls Will, shouldering on his coat. He gets in front of Matt, between him and his prey and meets his eyes directly. “I can handle myself,” he says low, in warning, moving in front of Matt again as he tries to sidestep, to break the dark gaze levelled on the man now staring back in return. “Please,” Will asks, not in politeness but in firm expectation. “Don’t do this. Don’t put me in this position.”

“I bet he puts her in all kinds of positions,” the man snorts towards the bartender. “Should’ve figured Orioles fans would be a bunch of -”

The word never leaves his mouth, replaced instead by Matthew’s fist.

He hears the wet sound of bone on bone and skin on skin over his shoulder and grabs Matthew around the waist. “Enough!” barks Will, but he’s not strong enough to pull Matthew away, to stop him from snaring the stunned man by the collar and yanking him roughly back off the bar stool. Will sees the man struggling to find his feet, blood running dark between his fingers as he cradles his face and Matthew drags him outside.

“No!” Will shouts, blowing through the door and watching as a sloppy haymaker catches Matt across the jaw. He’s gone, distant, somewhere else and Will knows he doesn’t hear him when he grins at his opponent through scarlet-stained teeth and lunges for him.

Time slows, burned into his retinas like lightning, and in the arch of the man’s back, Will sees the bailiff, hurled onto the spiked prongs of the stag’s head with such force they went straight through to the other side.

A sympathetic nausea rockets down Will’s spine to congeal in his stomach as the man’s head slams against the pavement. Matthew lands on top of him, straddling his chest and raining down his fists until the man is coughing sprays of blood beneath him.

Will can only watch as Matthew’s grin widens into a hoarse laugh, raw animal triumph curling his lips and arms thrown open in victory. His muscles sing with electricity and his lungs tear with thunder and every part of him is destruction incarnate.

Will turns away from the devastation laid bare in white teeth and red blood and he is sick, bracing a hand against the brick wall of the bar. The edges of his vision start to darken and he wipes his mouth, shaking.

He doesn’t know how he gets home, figures later that he must have gotten in a cab. Knows the car isn’t there but doesn’t care. Knows Matthew isn’t there but doesn’t care. He locks the doors behind him and he goes to take a shower that becomes a bath and he sits in the hot water until it becomes cold, and finally he goes to bed.

The sound of the door closing startles him violently back awake.

“Where’d you go?” Matt’s voice is windswept and rough.

“Home,” he responds. “Away.”

“You left me.”

“Mm.”

“What if something happened?”

“Something did happen.”

“No, something bad.”

Will snorts.

“You mean something bad to you.”

“Yeah.”

“Like getting arrested.”

“Yeah.”

“Again, you mean,” Will adds. “Getting arrested again. How many times will this be?”

A drawn silence pulls between them. “That’s not fair.”

“I think he’d probably say the same thing after being blind-sided by you,” Will responds, sitting up stiffly. “Don’t act like you weren’t enjoying yourself. You must want to go back pretty fucking badly, Matt.” He watches as Matthew runs his hands over his hair. They’re still streaked with red and Will chokes down another wave of nausea.

“No,” Matthew interjects, shaking his head. “Don’t say that. It’s not my fault.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not, Will. It’s not my fault. I told him - I warned him -”

“Mm.”

“I told him to stop and he just -”

“Said words,” Will nods, lips pursing. “He just said words, Matt.”

“And now he’s got time to think about what words he wants to say,” Matthew snarls, hands clenching stiffly, an aftershock of energy with nowhere to direct it. “I’m not going to let someone talk shit to you like that. It’s not right. And if you won’t do something about it,” he starts, tongue wetting his lips anxiously. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

“No. Oh, no.” Will stands, fingers twitching in sympathetic response. He tightens them into fists to stop. “Don’t put this on me. I was a fucking cop, Matt. Homicide detective, FBI field work. You think I can’t protect myself if I have to? Did you ever think that maybe - just maybe - I know a little bit more about how to resolve a situation better than you?”

“Right!” Matt laughs suddenly, slapping a palm against his forehead. “Right. I forgot. I forgot how well you know how to handle yourself. So well that I had to go back again - for you - because you needed me to kill that doctor - for you.”

Their eyes meet, reverberations echoing between them - the silence that always seems louder after a thunderclap.

Regret caves Matthew’s shoulders instantly and he steps forward, but Will’s already shuttered.

“Wait -”

“Fuck off, Matt.”

He  doesn’t look at him again, instead gathers his pillow and a blanket, and throws them, and himself, down on the couch.

He listens as Matthew showers and tends to his hands, hissing in anger at the pain and at himself. He listens as Matthew stops near the couch for a long time and watches him, just like he used to. He listens as Matthew finally finds his way to the bed and curls up without him.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night, or the day that follows.

Will knows that something in his face must change when Matt draws his breath a certain way because he keeps stopping himself before he speaks. And when Matt finally reaches for him, Will flinches, twisting away without thinking, without meaning to move so cruelly, but all he can see are livid bruises and swollen knuckles and split skin and that man’s face turned to gore and the blood in Matthew’s grin when he laughed.

“Fuck.”

Matthew’s soft whisper finally pierces the stony silence between them and Will frowns into his book. Matt’s hands are shaking as he tries to wrap fresh bandages over his knuckles, hands so swollen he can barely grip the thin strip of fabric. His teeth are gritted hard against a deeper pain, worse than than the one in his hands. Will winces at the familiar bruised feeling that spreads across his chest as he watches, cracking his ribs, laying barometric pressure to his lungs.

Still speechless, still unsure of what to say even if he wanted to say something, Will sets his book aside and moves to the couch. Matt watches, wide-eyed but silent as Will settles beside him and takes his hands into his lap and begins to wrap them.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew breathes. “I fucked up.”

Will nods, not ungently, and Matthew sighs hard, days’ worth of breath trapped inside his chest. “I fucked up bad. I just - when he - no,” he stops himself when Will glances up at him. “I just fucked up.” He shuts his eyes and he presses his face into Will’s hair. Will shivers, like ice water cascading over his head and down his neck and shoulders and arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t look at me like that anymore. Please.”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t know who I am.”

He cradles Matt’s hand gently as he loops the bandage firmly around it, squeezing just enough to keep the bones set close. “I know who you are,” Will finally responds. “I just don’t know if I know all of who you are.”

“But you know I’d never hurt you, right?”

Will doesn’t answer, setting aside one hand for the other.

“Mister Graham - Will,” he corrects himself, grasping Will’s face in both hands. “You know that, right? You have to know that. I would never - I couldn’t - not you. I would do it to anyone else in the world for you, but never you. I’d die first. You have to know that.”

Will doesn’t fight the touch, neither does he lean into it. "Don't do it for me. Not again.”

He knows the silence he receives is an answer of its own, but he can’t help but close his eyes and soften as Matthew leans in, kissing his face all over, over and over.

_Isolation. Reintegration. Socialization. Relapse._

_Repeat._


End file.
